The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (26 page)

His attendant held the chair for her, and she lowered herself onto the white silk cushion with relief. He nodded to a waiter, and instantly four waiters came forward, bearing every manner of food and explaining to her what each dish was. She quickly became aware that the elegant repast set before her was anything but “light.” Eggs and prawns in brioche. Quiche camembert with salmon. In addition, there was a classic English afternoon tea, complete with a four-tier silver tray of finger sandwiches, fresh strawberries, traditional scones served with clotted cream, French pâtisseries, and a wide selection of teas, hot chocolates, and coffees.

“Do you find anything to your liking, Señorita Nicolette? Or would you care to order a more substantial lunch?”

“It is more than sufficient, I assure you, Your Highness.” She giggled in spite of herself. “I am accustomed to eating a lunch of omelet or fish, fresh fruit, toast, and hot tea, so this is indeed bountiful.”

“Would you prefer that I order these dishes for you, Señorita Nicolette? It can easily be arranged.” For some reason, his vigilance discomposed her even further.

“I should never forgive you if you do, Prince Alejandro!” she heard herself protesting, placing a bite of strawberry and cream cheese crepe in her mouth. He seemed startled at her remark as laughter escaped from his lips. He had the expression of a man who had never laughed before in his life, and she found herself joining him.

Even so, they were each stiffly reserved in comparison to their previous interactions. Prince Alejandro was all that was polite and attentive throughout the luncheon. He was well informed without boasting or inflating himself—this was a welcome change—with a pronounced desire to amuse and please her, and he even ventured a few remarks about the music and landscape of Spain.

“And what is your favorite opera, Señorita Nicolette?”

“My favorite? Oh, I have many, Your Highness.” She observed that he awaited her answer and was not merely making conversation. “Hmmm, I should say
La
Bohème
,
The Magic Flute
,
Carmen
,
Lakmé
,
The Pirates of Penzance
, and, most assuredly,
The Barber of Seville
.”

“Ah, I see you favor the comedies,” Prince Alejandro commented.

“Only two of these can be said to be comedies, but yes, I enjoy laughter.”

“I suppose that one likes to be amused.” He shrugged. Ah, the man she remembered was returning.

“Do you not attend French theatre while you are in Paris, Your Highness?” This royal was quite perplexing.

“If I must.” He tried to hide a smile, but the left corner of his mouth raised slightly.

“If you must? French comedies are delightful! People think the French are snobbish—only because they are a people who value wit and intelligence.”

“Perhaps it is because the French make fun of everyone.”

“True…but they make fun of themselves as well in the bargain!” She tilted her hat so that her eyes were not fully visible to him, and she saw that he strained forward. He could not seem to take his eyes from her. “Their lightheartedness and cleverness, their study of human nature, is mistaken for
hauteur
. The French know how to laugh. They don’t take life, themselves, or anything too seriously. They eat, they drink, they love, they
live
.”

“Would that they did not paint,” he murmured, patting his lips with his napkin. “And you, Señorita Nicolette. Do you take yourself seriously?”

“Very.” She tapped her gloved hand along her lip. He didn’t reveal much, masquerading behind questions.

“I take you very seriously as well, Señorita Nicolette.” She felt her heartbeat increase under the caress of his rich brown eyes. “I can honestly say that no other woman has perplexed me more.”

“There is no mystery to me, Your Highness.” She met his gaze with the force of the fire in her soul. “At least I am
consistent
in my behavior.”

“And which behavior do we refer to?” he asked tersely.

“I am not a person who floats through life. I am very clear on what I want—and I don’t rely on anyone else to give it to me.”

“I am baffled by your repulsion to gifts, Señorita.”

“I must say that I would not expect it to be so puzzling to an educated man of the world.” She smiled and poured a touch of cream into her jasmine tea before taking a sip.

“Educate me further, Señorita.”

“Anything worth having comes deep from within, don’t you think, Your Highness?”

“Is there anything worth having, Señorita Nicolette?” He cleared his throat, seemingly startled by her conviction—and his own remark.

She stared at him, aghast. She was searching for a reply when he made an unconcealed decision to change the subject.

“And why
The Barber of Seville
, of all the operas, may I ask?” He smiled stiffly.

“Have you seen it, Prince Alejandro?” she ventured, already knowing the answer. The person who had done everything and felt nothing. Her eyes rested on the silver vase of pink roses on their table. She breathed deeply of the jasmine and rose scents combining in the air.

“It is amusing.” He nodded to a waiter, who poured both warm, steamed milk and dark, French coffee into a cup from a silver service. She shook her head, preferring the floral-scented teas today. He ran his strong hand along the white linen tablecloth abstractedly, imposing silence until the waiter had stepped back.

“It is more than amusing, it is delightful. And it is no less than a musical work of genius by Rossini.” She fought the temptation look into his eyes.

“There is one piece sung with eight different harmonies, as I recall,” he stated. He took another sip of his coffee, but his eyes did not waver from her.

“Not eight
harmonies
, but eight distinct musical
melodies
,” she corrected him. “Can you imagine the difficulty? Combining
two
distinct melodies to sound appealing is difficult, but
eight
?”

“I would think it an impossibility.”

“And it sounds wonderful! You will not find such a feat accomplished anywhere else. And, yes,
The Barber
is very funny, but whether tragic or joyful, what is the fundamental principle of Rossini’s work?”

“Rhythmic zest?” Prince Alejandro stretched his legs out before him. He seemed very interested in her but not in their conversation.

“
Delight
, Your Highness.” She laughed, unable to help herself. “Consider the barber of Seville himself.”

“Figaro?” he asked with polite interest.

“He is the most irrepressible character in all of opera. And my favorite.”

“He seems unduly pleased with himself,” Prince Alejandro noted as he took another sip of his coffee and placed a strawberry in his mouth.

“More than pleased, I should say! Figaro enters the stage early in the morning, anxious to begin his busy day. He sings,
‘Isn’t it wonderful to be alive and to be Figaro
.’”

“And he is only a barber.”

“
Only
a barber. Figaro tells us that there is nothing he cannot do or facilitate and that the town would fall apart without him. His confidence is delectable and contagious.” She didn’t know why she was sharing so much with a man who did not appear to be much interested. Possibly she longed to see a spark of life not related to a flirtation in this man. A little bit of Figaro would go a long way to help this royal.

“Indeed. A jack of all trades.”

“He congratulates himself, he sings his own praises to the heavens,
he delights in his own company.
” She laughed. “He is
only
a barber, and yet he sings that he is the luckiest, the busiest, the smartest man in town!”

“Figaro proves to be a competent fellow. I believe he is also a musician and an arranger of liaisons. A businessman, of sorts.”

“That is not the point, Prince Alejandro.” She shook her head. She bent to smell the roses on the table and found that he was watching her suddenly as if mesmerized. Did he have a dimple in his cheek? No, she didn’t think so, but it was difficult to tell, he so rarely smiled. She breathed deeply. “Figaro expresses complete joy in being alive and in being…Figaro. He loves the experience of his own existence.”

“He enjoys his own company, to be sure.”

“I should say he is
enchanted
by his own company.” She giggled. She studied his broad shoulders, so stiff as he sat there watching her.
His cheekbones were strongly defined, as were all of his facial features. He had a strong, square chin. His eyebrows were prominent and created a feeling of intensity about him, as did his eyes, his most arresting quality.
“He is not born noble or with any particular advantages, and there is no one he would rather be.”

“And do you have much in common with this Figaro, Señorita?”

“I do. I love being who I am.”
Until recently.
“And you, Prince Alejandro?” She was becoming frustrated. It was almost impossible to discover anything about this man to whom she must entrust her future.

“I…I…” He cleared his throat and seemed taken aback.

“And who are you, Prince Alejandro?”

“Who am I?” he repeated, but no answer came forth. Did he choose not to answer, or did he not know the answer? “How odd. This is the second time in so many days I have heard this question.”

“And what is your reply?”

“To be the crown prince of Spain is to—”

“That was not my question, Your Highness.”

“Is to serve, Señorita,” he replied with emphasis, ignoring her protestations.

“I see. And what is
your
favorite opera, Prince Alejandro? Do you know the answer to that question?”

“I would say
La
Bohème
. It has a very special place in my heart.”

“Oh?” she asked, interested to finally see some evidence of feeling cross his face. “And why is that, Your Highness?”

“I was very sick once. Someone was singing a piece from
La
Bohème
.
” He cleared his throat, closing his eyes momentarily. “And, I can’t explain why, I found the strength to continue. You see, Señorita, music has held a place in my heart for some time.”

“Where were you…during your illness?” Very deliberately, she quickly bent her head so that her hat would cover her face as the shock of the possibilities hit her.
No, it couldn’t be. A memory which is so dear to me. A boy for whom I have prayed for so many years.

“As it so happens, I was in Constantinople in the palace of the sultan.”

“The Seraglio,” she whispered, her eyes stealing a glance at his expression.

“Yes, Señorita Nicolette.” He nodded, raising his eyebrows in condescension. “You have read about it?”

“
Read
? You flatter me, Your Highness. And how long ago were you there?”

“Eight years ago. In the springtime.”

She felt her hand shaking as she lowered her teacup to the table, covering her face again. She bit her lip as she searched the picture of his face in her mind for some glimpse of the gentleness, the sweetness she had seen in the boy.

Could it be him
? No. It was contrary to all reason. That the unfeeling man who was now in control of her future was the sick boy who had touched her heart was
impossible
.